It Must Be So
by Adrienne Drusilla Daae
Summary: Nini's point of view - the tango, the Argentinean, and their story.


Title: It Must Be So

Author: Adrienne

Rating: PG-13, no real content issues here, only my potty mouth and discussion of prostitution.

Disclaimer: I'm not Baz Luhrmann, therefore I do not own the movie Moulin Rouge. I don't own the song "Roxanne", which belongs to Sting, or the song "El Tango de Roxanne", which belongs to Baz. I don't even own the characters of Nini and the Argentinean, who happen to be the property of the extremely talented Caroline O'Connor, and Jacik Koman, who are also not me.

Notes: To Steph, for the beta and the title. If it were up to me, this would still be sitting title-less. Thanks for the help, darling.

Summary: Nini's point of view - the Tango, the Argentinean, and their story.

* * *

Roxanne . . . you don't have to put on that red light . . .

One touch, one kiss upon the shoulder blade, one plaintive note from a violin . . . one moment, and it starts again. The passion, the desire, the utter pain that you've stored up inside comes bursting out, and you know that this time, it'll be different. It's not like the other times you let your facade drop. When the 'ice bitch' Nini simply goes away somewhere, and the real woman is let loose. The woman who doesn't want to be a whore . . . who only wanted to be a dancer. But a woman's got to eat. You had enough of living hand-to-mouth when you were a child. Mother was a serving-woman in some rich bloke's home, and you hadn't set eyes on your father since the age of five. You know you'd do anything to escape that fate.

Walk the streets for money . . .

So you become the whore. Like Satine, you play a role, but you're nothing like the Sparkling Diamond. You're the ice queen, the untouchable woman who feels nothing for no one. No man has ever been worth giving up your life as a dancer for. No man has ever been more to you than a meal ticket. And that's the way it must be. Because you know that if you let the walls down, nothing will be the same again. Your career will be ruined. You'll go back to being the urchin on the Rue Rivoli, begging for scraps of food or money, and you'll feel as worthless as you did then.

You don't care if it's wrong or if it is right . . .

You'd do anything to keep from feeling worthless again. And so you set yourself up to be so untouchable that no one would remember the frightened child who'd spent half her life on the street. The girl Antoinette, with her swirling, if tattered, petticoats, and the wilting flowers in her hair has been replaced with Nini, Queen of the Four Whores. You hide behind the sarcastic remarks, and the callous exterior, and no one is the wiser. You sleep with the worst of the underworld in Paris, and come out as if nothing has changed. Nothing, that is, except for your heart. It's still there, but it's become so protected and cut off that you don't believe you'd recognize it anymore.

Roxanne . . . you don't have to wear that dress tonight

But someone else _did_ recognize it. That closed-off part of you awoke with a vengeance for the first time in years. Funny that all it took was a dance. After all, dancing is the only way you feel alive anymore. And you don't know why, but this contradiction of a man, this unwilling victim, is responsible for it. You don't even know his name - no one does - but you recognize him. You know somehow that he's just like you. Hiding his real emotions inside, and presenting a shadow of himself for the rest of the world. You didn't know that he'd affect you so powerfully, though. The mere touch of his lips on your shoulder sent a shudder throughout you, and you were so confused as to why such a chaste touch upon your body could provoke such a strong reaction.

Roxanne . . . you don't have to sell your body to the night . . .

Touch isn't the only thing that can produce reactions in you, though. You knew that he was thinking along the same lines as you were, when he began telling the young writer of his story. You were in total agreement: Christian had to know what he was getting himself into by loving Satine, and how hard it was going to be because she was promised to another man. He possessed just as theatrical a mind as your own and you knew that you both had to commit to this dance. In many ways, it wasn't just a warning to the writer . . . it was a warning to yourselves. Didn't Harold say it best, the saying he repeated over and over to his beloved girls? 'We are creatures of the underworld. We are not meant to love.' Even Harold and Marie were not truly in love, and theirs was probably the most sacred of relationships in the Moulin Rouge. But you didn't listen to Harold that night. Not when you felt the passion of the dance go through you.

Why does my heart cry?

You knew all along what it would take. You knew it had to be the performance of a lifetime. Everything had been predestined, fixed, and there was nothing you could do to change it . . . except to surrender. Surrender to the swelling of the music, to the ringing of his boot heels on the marble floor that spelled out the tempo, to the need to unchain your feelings and let the real Antoinette out. But also to finally give this man some closure to the biggest regret in his life. Everyone knew the story of Roxanne, but you resembled her so much, it was nearly a mirror into his past. It was one of the first things he told you, to explain why he never got close to people, and to explain his interest in you. You had broken your cardinal sin by sympathizing with him. But one glimpse into his stormy eyes told you sympathy wasn't what he was looking for. So you gave him what he needed: a woman who would assist in exorcising his demons, and who would only ask for a few meals and a place to sleep in return. A good bargain . . . until you realized that the ending of the story could never be changed.

Feelings I can't fight . . .

His harsh, yet sensual voice wrapping around you, and the warmth of his body against your own . . . it's like something out of a dream. His eyes reflect the passion you know is there, and you can't help but return it. Passion has never been a problem between you. His hands, possessively sweeping up your leg, and capturing it to press you more closely to him. His mouth, greedily kissing you, and leaving you begging for more. His strength, capable of lifting you high into the air, and the utter grace in his movements. These are only a shadow of what he's capable of behind closed doors. You know, and you don't kiss and tell. All the can-can girls want to know, but you keep your secrets when it comes to him. After all, he's seen you at your lowest after a customer got too rough, and he's seen you in your glory after an encore performance at the Moulin Rouge. And he didn't attempt to treat you any differently after either of them. He was simply the one constant in your world.

You're free to leave me, but just don't deceive me . . .

He has never criticized you for being a whore. He's frequented the underworlds of various countries long enough to know what goes on and he knows that he's done things he's not proud of. He even tries to help with money every now and then, but you've stopped accepting money from him. The only thing he requested is that you kept your customers away from the place where he and the other Bohemians lived. It wasn't hard to do, since Paris was overrun with seedy lofts that one could rent for an afternoon or night. In the beginning, you would go back to his apartment after a night's work, and he would sit across from you with a glass of absinthe, asking you about the goings-on of the Moulin Rouge. You never spoke of your other profession. But after a while, it would eventually be spoken of on the nights when you returned with glass embedded in your hands and feet, or belt wounds on your back. On those nights, he always held you, softly murmuring nonsense words in his native language that you never understood. But it never mattered, because you appreciated it more than you could ever tell. He knew, of course. He always seemed to know things when it came to you. That was probably why you didn't even need to confess when he confronted you about having another man in his bed.

And please, believe me when I say I love you . . .

That night was one of your worst fights. Just as your love was filled with passion, so was your hate. You screamed at one another for hours on end, and he was livid because you'd broken the one rule he insisted on. You were apologetic, but upset that this man was vilifying you for one single mistake. You saw the utter revulsion in his eyes, and realized that it was because of you. He wasn't truly upset over your 'bringing work home', but because you'd proved to be true the one thing he tried to lie to himself about: 'Never fall in love with a woman who sells herself. It always ends bad!'. And he was right when he told that to the writer. It always does end bad, because he was ready to walk away from you, from Paris, and from the Moulin Rouge. But you didn't want to let him go, because you finally realized something. That heart of yours wasn't as cold as you thought. It hurt more than anything to watch him turn his back on you, and begin to walk out of your life. It took all the courage you possessed to run after him and physically stop him from leaving. He watched you with wary eyes, wondering if you were going to crush his heart like Roxanne had done. What he didn't realize was that you were no Roxanne. You opened your mouth to ask him to stay, and what came out was more of a surprise to you than to him.

Why does my heart cry?

"I'm not her. I'm not Roxanne. I won't leave you, no matter how much you scream at me. I won't just give up on you. You are the only man who has ever made me believe I was worth more than a night's pay. You actually believed that there was something better than a whore in me . . . and you never gave up on me. But if you really believe that I'm worth helping, you'd stay. Because I refuse to think that what is going on between us is anything like you and Roxanne, or Shakespeare and his muse. We're different. We're stronger. And if you walk out that door, you won't only be walking out on a woman . . . you'll be walking out on the woman who loves you."

He refused to turn around, steadily keeping his back to you. You knew you must have struck a nerve in the way his shoulders tensed. "We are creatures of the underworld, Nini. We are not meant to love."

"But we do. And if you walk out on me, don't come back. Don't draw this pain out. If you feel nothing else for me than pity, then just go."

He turned, regret shining in his eyes. "Then it must be so, querida."

The door shut, and the heart that you always forgot you had broke all over again.

Oh, Roxanne . . .

****

The End.


End file.
